


Petrichor

by utsu



Category: Free!
Genre: Flowers, Future Fic, Introspection, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 16:17:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3816868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/utsu/pseuds/utsu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time, Sousuke might have simply frowned at Momo for his childishness, maybe told him he was being ridiculous. But he is not the same man he used to be; now, his heart is a garden every one of Momo’s smiles has watered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Petrichor

Yamazaki Sousuke can’t quite pinpoint the exact moment when he’d started looking at Mikoshiba Momotarou with more admiration than curiosity—with more heart than brain.

Their first meeting hadn’t even been anything special enough to be memorable, really, though Sousuke can still remember it well enough to feel chills race down his arms at the thought of the beetle Momotarou had shown him. He’s not very fond of beetles. Or bugs.

Sousuke’s first impression of Momotarou hadn’t exactly been a shining distinction set apart from any other first impression with a relative stranger, though Momotarou definitely got points for being the most energetic and fluttery person Sousuke has ever met in his life.

In the five years since, he hasn’t really changed all that much.

Sousuke on the other hand—well.

He starts seeing things a little differently.   
  
  


✧  
  
  


“Yamazaki-senpai!”

Sousuke groans into his pillow, long and low. He hears the hesitant yet insistent wrap of knuckles against his front door and peers over at his alarm clock, checking the time. Momotarou is, as per usual, early enough to have beaten the sun to greet the new day and Sousuke still has a foot in the world of his dreams.

He stuffs his face back into his pillow and chases the blurred vestiges of his dreams, touches the bitterly dissipating edges of them for a moment before they skirt away from his fingertips and he accepts that his efforts are truly fruitless. He hears Momo’s flustered grumbling outside the door and then the swift transition as he switches tactics and moves from grumbles to bribes.

“I’ll give you a massage!”

“You don’t know how to give a massage.” Sousuke huffs into his pillow, unsurprised that Momo makes an affronted noise, that he can still hear him. He probably has his ear pressed to the door. The mental image definitely doesn’t make Sousuke smile, not at all.

“Okay, maybe that’s fair.” Momo says, voice distorted by the door between them. Sousuke can almost imagine him standing there, pressed against the door and rubbing at his narrow jaw in contemplation. He sighs, rolling carefully until he’s resting on his back and his sore shoulder is elevated on the cushion of his pillow. A massage actually sounds incredible, if he’s being honest, but he can just imagine Momo and all of his enthusiasm, powerfully abundant and condensed like the sun, being centered into the palm of his hands against Sousuke’s skin, and that.

That thought did not end up going where he had expected it to.

“I’ll,” Momo drags the word out, clearly scrambling for anything he can use to encourage Sousuke to get out of bed even though the sun is only just barely kissing the mountain peaks. “I’ll buy you ice cream!”

“It’s too cold for ice cream.”

Sousuke hears Momo’s quiet grumble, though he’s certain Momo had pitched it low enough so that he wouldn’t. “It’s never too cold for ice cream.”

“You wouldn’t have to think so hard about possible bribes if you just came at an ordinary and healthy time.”

Momo’s response is immediate; “This isn’t hard; it’s totally easy. Easy breezy. Easy as pie.”

Sousuke smiles, he can’t help it. He’s wide awake now but some sadistic part of him, inherent and built deep, likes to let Momo squirm a little when he wakes him up so early on the weekends. He slips his left hand under his head and stares up at the plain white expanse of his ceiling, listening as Momo continues to sprout ridiculous propositions like shooting at a target in the dark.

“I’ll feed your turtle! I’ll go grocery shopping for you!"

“You know I don’t have a turtle. And we usually go grocery shopping together anyways, it’s not a big deal.”

Momo groans and Sousuke hears a bang that’s a little different than all of those prior—for a flicker of a moment he wonders if Momo is dramatic enough to bang his forehead against the door and then he remembers that it’s  _Momo_  and of _course_  he is.

There’s a short moment of silence and then Momo’s voice comes again, a little less jubilant than before, laced with uncertainty and hinged on the barest edge of surrender.

“I’ll cook you dinner?”

Something about that makes Sousuke pause, makes his breath catch in his throat and his heart flutter. He sits up quick enough to get a head rush, lifts his left hand up to rub absentmindedly at his forehead as he settles his feet against the hardwood flooring of his apartment. It’s cold, and he shivers—but it’s not because of the cold floor, or even the cold air permeating his apartment. He refuses to put the truth of it into words, or even thoughts.

Brows furrowed with slight confusion, he pictures Momo moving around in his kitchenette, making the space partly his for however long he needs to; moving things around as he pleases, getting miscellaneous ingredients all over himself and the counters and probably the floor; humming while he stirs something hot and spicy and delicious in a pot as wide around the rim as he is around the waist. It’s all rather ordinary, nothing special or outstanding, he doesn’t even imagine an apron present, and yet.

Somehow, like the furtive embrace of a seaside breeze that leaves chills in its wake, Sousuke wants to take hold of his intangible imaginings and make them reality.

So it’s without hesitation that he finally acquiesces to Momo’s final offer with a casual, barely audible, “Okay.”

“Okay?” Momo’s voices comes through the door, slowly rising in timbre. “Okay!”

Sousuke slides off of his bed and stretches, ever mindful of his shoulder. He pads over to the door and rubs distractedly at the back of his neck before unlocking the dead bolt and opening the door to see Momo’s beaming expression; it’s equally as bright as a sunrise, and just as colorful with a splotchy red spread of blush across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, the liquid gold of his irises, and the rusty halo of his slightly overgrown hair.

He’s practically bouncing in place, vibrating almost right out of his skin, his hands clasped together in front of his chest with each thumb hitched around the straps of his backpack. His lips are pursed in a smile waiting to break free and his eyes are baby-deer wide and equally as innocent, as though he hadn’t just bribed his way into private practice for a sport he no longer participates in, early enough for the sun to still be conquering the backsides of the mountains.

“Give me a couple minutes to get ready,” Sousuke says, malachite eyes still a little heavy from sleep. Momo bobs his head in jerky movements, far more than he actually needs to, and somehow the gesture—so theatrical and over-the-top polite—makes Sousuke want to laugh, just a little.

“Of course, Yamazaki-senpai,” Momo breathes, slightly out of breath from his excitement at finally getting what he wants. He looks up at Sousuke with eyes on fire and lets his smile break across his face, as bright and alluring as the endless horizon, and Sousuke’s heart beats out a shifting rhythm not unlike that of the ocean’s surface, just to meet it.

The ground falls away beneath Sousuke's feet, and Momo smiles.

He says, “I’ll always wait for you.”  
  
 

✧  
  
  


“So that wasn’t so bad, right? I’ve definitely improved!”

Momo is in Sousuke’s kitchenette, rifling through his refrigerator in nothing but a pair of sweats and a towel slung over his neck and shoulders when Sousuke comes out from the bathroom, freshly showered. He’s got nothing on but a towel, skin damp but no longer dripping wet, and he rubs at the back of his head with another towel as he heads over to Momo’s voice.

“You still need to work on your center of balance.” He admits, his tone not unkind. He turns the corner just in time to see Momo’s shoulders wilt, his stirring arm slowing to a temporary stop in a rare moment of dejection. Sousuke leans against the archway that separates his front room from his kitchenette and studies the tense line of Momo’s neck and shoulders, noting the stress there and feeling the first inklings of concern begin to form under his ribs.

“But you’re right, you’ve definitely improved. Your extension was pretty good today, and your streamline is always without fault.”

Momo glances over his shoulder with suspicious eyes narrowed on Sousuke’s unwavering gaze, the impartial slash of his downturned lips. Sousuke raises a brow at his blatant mistrust, silently inquiring. They know each other well enough now, so many years after their initial meeting, to understand one another’s nonverbal cues. Of course, Sousuke’s nonverbal cues had been a little more difficult for Momo to understand than Momo’s had been for Sousuke, but that was mostly because it’s impossible for Momo to be anything but expressive, while Sousuke’s default expression is utterly caged off.

Complete opposites, some might say, but even still, they work incredibly well together. Years ago, when all Sousuke knew about Momo was that he had an obsession with beetles and was physically incapable of hiding his emotions or intentions, Sousuke would’ve been the first person to say that there was no way that he and Mikoshiba Momotarou could ever be anything more than acquaintances in passing.

And yet, as Sousuke later found out Momo is like to do, he’d found a way to make a home under Sousuke’s skin, a shining bundle of energy whose presence in Sousuke’s life became as familiar to him as breathing, and later when Sousuke found he couldn’t greet a new day without wondering when Momo would show up, almost as essential.

“You did well today, too, Yamazaki-senpai.” Momo’s voice is as sincere as always, with no sign of flattery; it is the simplest of statements, like commenting on the weather, nothing more and nothing less, and yet.

Sousuke receives it like a bouquet of flowers, eyes going wide with surprise, chest tightening around emotions he can’t put words to but can taste on the back of his throat with conviction. He mentally admonishes himself for such a silly reaction to such a bland compliment that’s not even really a compliment at all, and feels that same unstable feeling in the pit of his gut, like the world is changing around him and inside of him and he’s the only one who notices a difference.

He watches Momo flit around his kitchenette like a butterfly just-released from a jar, excited to touch and see as much of this new world as he possibly can before he’s caught anew. He pushes down the strange suffocating feeling in his throat, in his chest, that makes his eyes soften when he catches Momo glance his way, just to see what he’s doing. He tells himself that nothing is changing, that the world is the same as it’s always been.

He ignores the way his heart pounds out a rhythm he’s never heard before, and the way he suddenly recognizes it, like it’s been coursing through him all along and he’s only just opened his hands to let it in completely.

It feels like sunlight in his veins.

And somehow, somehow, it reminds him of Momo.

“Hey,” Sousuke calls, voice quiet. Momo glances over his shoulder again, no hesitation as he turns to the call of Sousuke’s voice. A pang courses through Sousuke’s bloodstream and it  _frustrates_ him, because he can’t understand it. He frowns, eyes unintentionally hard as he looks at Momo. “Why don’t you take a shower now? I’ll finish dinner.”

“But!” Momo squeaks, cheeks darkening just the slightest bit. “I promised—dinner—for a month; I told you I’d make it for you!”

“You’ve made it for the past two weeks.” Sousuke tries to smooth out his expression, succeeds only partly and mostly because he’s just plain exhausted. He tries to give Momo an encouraging look; he’s fairly certain it fails. “I can take one night off your hands.”

Momo waits, still turned over his shoulder, and studies Sousuke’s heavy eyes. His gaze flickers over Sousuke’s entire expression, touching on every detail, and for once in Sousuke’s life, he cares. He cares about what Momo’s thinking, cares about what Momo is getting from Sousuke’s strained expression; he wants to know what Momo’s thinking, wants to know how his own discomfort is affecting Momo on an emotional level.

He sort of feels like that would be taking too much without giving enough in return.

So instead of pushing forward and doing something he might regret, something that would undoubtedly be embarrassing and would without fail incite questions in Momo—questions that Sousuke can’t answer because he has no clue what’s happening here—instead, he turns away from the kitchen and heads for the front room.

He bends down and pulls a pair of black boxer briefs and sweatpants from his swim bag and proceeds to slip into them underneath his towel. He adorns most of his clothes with relative ease, allowing the towel to drop even as he hears Momo set down the ladle he’d been stirring with and shuffle out of the kitchenette. He clears his throat as Sousuke slips a blank tank top over his head, covering the wide expanse of his chest and his defined abs from view.

“I’m going to shower, then.” Momo says, a little nervously; he’s definitely picking up on the tension in every line of Sousuke’s body.

Sousuke says, “Okay.” And he bends down to grab his towel, still the slightest bit damp, from the floor. He doesn’t turn around to face the kitchenette until he hears the door to the bathroom hitch closed and the weak stream of the shower turn on.

Then, and only then, does he let his right hand come up to his chest, fingertips pressing hard enough to leave crescent shapes behind, a five moon arc of confusion over his heart.  
  
  


✧  
  
  


Ever since that night, when he had been forced to face the pivotal peak of his growing confusion, Sousuke had accepted the fact that something in him has changed, and that it is directly related to Momo.

He’s been fighting it for so long, throwing confusion and irritation and even denial against the walls of his skull, hoping to knock some sense into himself. And yet, the moment that he found himself lying alone in his apartment with some song Momo had recommended to him playing through his earphones, he’d felt the lines of tension inhibiting his body ease away. Having accepted the change still feels a little like having accepted defeat, but somehow, at the same time, it’s also like victory.

He can’t deny that he feels more at ease now that he isn’t constantly fussing over the confusing shifts of his own emotions and reactions in regards to Momo; there is still an indefinable sort of tension that laces his muscles and makes some of his gestures less fluid than normal, so much so that even Momo begins to notice, but he’s still a work in progress.

He’s still getting used to the changes that come with opening himself up to—to  _love_.

The most jarring of changes is his complete inability to focus entirely on anything but Momo whenever they’re together. This goes hand-in-hand with his newfound hyperawareness of Momo whenever he’s around Sousuke.

With Momo, he’d always experienced a strange sense of flaring curiosity when studying his features; the way he’s so much shorter than Sousuke and his body so much more slender; the way his eyes are big and wide like saucers. Unlike Sousuke’s, Momo’s hands are thin enough to reach inside of a cup; his fingers thin and spindly like the tips of tree branches.

The way that, when Sousuke is close enough, he can see subtle freckles adorning the ball of each of Momo’s shoulders, like fairy dust.

At first, it’s awkward. Sousuke feels uncomfortable in his own skin when he starts to realize that he’s looking at Momo with more than curiosity about their anatomical dissimilarities, or even just the enigmatic differences that Momo has from other people that _aren’t_  Sousuke. His discomfort has nothing to do with Momo, and everything to do with himself, usually so confident and sure of himself, having no idea how to appropriately respond to Momo anymore.

How can he feel comfortable when Momo brushes by him in the kitchenette, so close his elbow grazes over the dip of Sousuke’s back, when all he wants to do is turn around and pull Momo into the shelter of his arms? How can he so easily accept Momo’s overenthusiastic high-fives whenever he drops time during their private practices when he wants to do more than just touch hands, when he wants a hug, when he wants a  _kiss_?

Sousuke does not want to overstep his bounds, does not want to make Momo uncomfortable or worried. But he is also confident in himself; aware of whom he is as a person. He has high self-efficacy and he is not a coward.

When he realizes that the breathlessness that comes when Momo meets his eyes or the one-two stutter of his heart when Momo says his name is unlike anything he’s ever felt before and he wants  _more_ ; when Momo is suddenly everywhere Sousuke looks, even when he isn’t actually  _there_ —

When he realizes,  _oh_ , this is  _love_ ; that’s when he makes his decision.

He decides that he will love Momo unabashedly for as long as he can, until Momo tells him that he must stop.  _If_  Momo tells him that he must stop.

Once Sousuke’s heart settles on his decision, everything becomes easier. He doesn’t freeze up when Momo shows up on his front doorstep earlier than the sun can fully rise, doesn’t glance away when Momo meets his gaze, doesn’t flinch when Momo intertwines their arms and leads him into the pool area before each of their private practices.

Instead, he wakes up before Momo’s knuckles ever hit the wood-paneling of his door, lets his eyes soften whenever Momo turns to meet his stare, and holds onto Momo’s forearm with a gentleness that burns straight through him, his fingertips moving over Momo’s freckled skin like ghosts, stealing intimacy he isn’t sure he deserves just yet.

When Momo drops an entire second off of his 100-meter backstroke, he rushes out of the water and bounds into Sousuke’s arms, wrapping himself up in his warmth and congratulations. Sousuke brings his arms around him, a small smile on his face, and rubs gently at the backs of Momo’s shoulders. Momo sighs against his chest, bringing his head back to look up at Sousuke as best as he can from his position this close, and Sousuke cranes his neck until he’s looking down into Momo’s eyes, until he can see the single freckle in the inner arc of his right iris.

“Thank you,” Momo gasps, still panting from his trial run. “For teaching me all these years!”

And then, without an ounce of hesitation, he pulls Sousuke back in and rests his head against his chest, nuzzling into the soft cotton of Sousuke’s hoodie. Sousuke feels heat flare in the shells of his ears and across the bridge of his nose, lets the sharp edge of his strong jaw come to rest against the side of Momo’s head, uncaring of Momo’s wet hair and the way it tickles his nose.

“You’re welcome,” he says, voice pitched low. They aren’t the only people in the pool area, not by far, but Sousuke finds that he doesn’t much care whether anyone is watching.

“I’m a slow learner, I know, but I always get it eventually! Well, except with history. But with swimming I always get it! Count on it!”

Sousuke nods, hiding a smile against Momo’s hair. He pulls back until he can see Momo looking up at him again, eyes wide and curious and utterly receptive to whatever it is Sousuke is preparing to say. Momo’s hair is wild and in disarray, some of it standing up and some of it plastered to his face, still dripping wet. Sousuke’s eyes soften as they often do now when exposed to the brunt of Momo’s overly expressive face, and he lifts his right hand to tuck some of Momo’s hair behind a curiously small ear.

“You are slow,” he says, eyes shining with sudden mirth when Momo’s expression morphs into a sudden petulant pout. He seems unfazed with Sousuke’s gentle touches, the way that one hand is still lingering on Momo’s side and the other is resting on the side of his flushed neck. He smiles and Momo’s eyes follow the movement of his lips, so open and receptive, honey-amber pools shifting with curiosity. Sousuke wants to lean forward and rest their foreheads together, to press his lips to Momo’s and whisper promises through his teeth until they settle in his heart, irrevocable and lasting.

(He doesn’t, though. Not yet.)

“But I’ll wait for you.”  
  
  


✧  
  
  


Sousuke isn’t certain that Momo is ever going to realize that something has changed.

It’s a little frightening to realize, for several big reasons. It means that Momo is more oblivious than Sousuke had ever thought, to the point of almost being senseless.

It means that Sousuke’s actions can become even more pronounced without consequence, which is a strange flickering middle ground between dangerous and refreshing. It means that Sousuke’s actions after he realized he is in love with Momo, now filled with so much more intent, are not  _different_ enough from when Sousuke hadn’t been in love with Momo to jar him.

It means that there’s a chance that Sousuke has been falling in love with Momo all this time.

And never even realized it.  
  
 

✧  
  
  


It also means that Momo may never realize, may never accept or reject, may never reciprocate.

It means that Sousuke is toeing the crumbling line of a cliff’s edge, his stomach in knots and his heart in his throat, the fear of falling pulling back against the fear of being stuck on the edge forever, a pull more stubborn than that of the tides.

The sun is still inching it’s way over the mountaintops, a slow dance as old as Time, and Sousuke waits while the earth continues crumbling away from under his feet, waits as he cannot yet fall.

He waits with everything he has on the line for that first sweet kiss of light against his skin, waits to greet it properly like a lover.

He thinks of that legend, the one about the man who flew too close to the sun, and he wonders how much heat he’s willing to take to get that kiss.

His shoulder throbs, a broken wing.

He hears Momo’s voice saying  _you can still swim ‘fly. You just have to be careful_.

The sun continues its march up the mountains; Sousuke balances on the precipice.

The sun’s radiant glow, mountaintops dipped in gold, warmth gliding over his skin.

Sousuke’s heart soars, lifts him up, brings him towards the heat.

He heads for the sun.

( _Careful, careful_ )  
  
  


✧  
  
  


It’s a Friday evening when Sousuke gets a call from Momo asking if he wants to join him for some errands; his response is easy enough if not given a little too quickly, he thinks. He slips into a plain black tank top and throws a jacket over his shoulders, leaving it unzipped. His sneakers are a little worn but they’re nothing compared to Momo’s, which he’s been wearing since high school.

Sousuke walks through three different stores with his hands tucked away in his pockets and Momo brushing against his side before they end up inside of the local flower shop. The name is something quaint and flowery and fitting, which Sousuke ignores for the most part until Momo points out how apt  _he_  thinks it is. 

“Forget Me Nots!” he exclaims as they step through the entrance and Momo makes a beeline for a bushel of peonies in the corner. “That’s such a good store name because it’s a flower name, but then later when you’ve left you kind of have to think about it and laugh, right? You can’t  _forget_  Forget Me Nots!”

Momo laughs, and Sousuke feels that same remarkable feeling of love bloom under his heart, lifting it up with petal-soft tendrils of warmth; he thinks he understands exactly what Momo is saying about being unable to forget.

“It makes sense,” he says instead, and Momo purses his lips at him in response. His attention is taken immediately after, though, by a section made up entirely of tulips in just about every color imaginable. Sousuke glances to his side at the peonies that had enraptured Momo the moment they’d entered the store, now long forgotten.

He glances to the lavender flowers hanging all around the corners of the store, over the arch of the entrance, and even over the cashier’s station; long enough to touch an employee’s shoulder at the register. Sousuke feels a tickle in his nose a moment before he sneezes, lifts a hand to rub delicately at the tender skin of his upper lip. Momo seems unaffected, sticking his pert nose deep into the open petals of a blue tulip.

He straightens and bounces in place, a perpetually buzzing gale beneath his skin, and turns to face Sousuke with an expression that very nearly knocks Sousuke right off his feet.

“This one is you,” Momo says, his eyes soft and bright and  _fond_. Sousuke takes a few steps over to him to see what he’s gesturing to, ignores the feeling of his heart like a stone sinking through the ocean of his chest.

He glances over Momo’s shoulder with a deadpan expression and finds a heap of blue tulips that, with their leaves and green planter in the background, are extraordinarily close to the same mixed shade of malachite as Sousuke’s eyes. He studies them for a long moment, noting the soft petals, perpetually reaching up towards the endless sky, the strength of the thick green stems holding them up, and the wispy green leaves that reach up and twist.

He looks up and glances around the room, lets his eyes land on as many of the flowers around him that he can see with a cursory, explorative glance. When he faces forward again he looks into the honeyed depths of Momo’s eyes, studies the golden flicker of his delight, and lets his gaze jump back to the blue tulips at Momo’s back. The tulips look more structured and hard than the other flowers, with their unaccommodating petals only opening just enough to let him get a glimpse inside to the core of them; so unlike the reaching petals of the roses, the peonies, and even the daisies just beside them.

The daises steal his attention away with their widely reaching petals, so open and inviting; their vibrant shades bright and variant enough to encompass a living flame. There are whites and yellows and golds like a waterfall of sunlight, a set of oranges and reds and pinks that bleed into scarlets reminiscent of the beauty of dusk. Every color seems more magnificent than the last, but Sousuke’s eyes catch on the delicately stretched petals of an orange daisy taller than the rest, furthest from his reach, and he remembers its neighboring blue tulips.

And he thinks that Momo is right. If there is one flower in the multitude of bushels and heaps of floras in this shop, he is a tulip, with its structured petals so protective and closed-off, beautiful and proud and strong.

But Momo, he would be orange daises, all of them brighter and more open than the others, smiling up towards the sunlight streaming like a trail of tangible magic through the window to lay sweet kisses upon their upturned petals.

Once upon a time, Sousuke might have simply frowned at Momo for his childishness, maybe told him he was being ridiculous. But he is not the same man he used to be; now, his heart is a garden every one of Momo’s smiles has watered.

He steps past Momo and gently pulls that orange daisy from its wreath and turns to Momo with a gentle smile; his eyes glitter like the ocean’s surface and are just as transparent of his feelings.

He says, “This one is you.”

“Really?” Momo asks, and his eyes brighten and squint when he smiles. But then he remembers whom he’s talking to and Sousuke watches the way his expression almost comically closes off, shades of suspicion lining his face. He raises a delicate brow at Sousuke, crossing his arms over his chest and putting on his best detective expression. “Because of the orange, right?”

Sousuke laughs, lifting his free hand to hide his smiling lips. He opens his eyes to see Momo beaming at him, the confusion overshadowed by his apparent joy at having gotten Sousuke to laugh at all, even if he’s not sure what he’s really laughing at. As Sousuke settles from his laughter, he lifts the flower and tucks it away behind Momo’s ear, looking on with unabashed fondness as the dazzling yellow orange of it pales in comparison to the luster of Momo’s beaming expression, his flickering amber eyes, his rosy pink lips.

“That,” Sousuke says, still smiling, “And a few other things, too.”

“Whaaat?” Momo groans, dragging the word out and bouncing slightly in place. He purses his lips a little and says, “So vague, Yamazaki-senpai.”

Sousuke shrugs, shifting to the side a little as another patron walks by him, an armful of roses tucked into his elbow. Sousuke watches him approach the register for a moment and wonders if those flowers are for the person he loves. When he turns back to Momo, the redhead is practically bouncing right out of his torn up sneakers, the daisy still tucked away behind his ear. Sousuke imagines trying to set an entire bouquet of daisies behind Momo’s ear and has to press his lips together to keep from laughing out loud, especially when Momo looks at him like he’s lost his mind.

And maybe he  _has_ —lost his mind, that is. Isn’t that the way it goes when you fall in love?

“You know what we should do?” Momo says, still bouncing. “We should buy some flowers and hand them to someone who looks like they need ‘em!”

It’s strange, how Sousuke recognizes that one time not too long ago something like this would’ve made him roll his eyes, but now only makes him smile with utter sincerity. He lifts a hand to trace the delicate underside of one of the petals, his fingertip just barely grazing the lobe of Momo’s ear and making him shiver in turn. He smiles a little more, his heart warm and content and fluttering at the reaction.

“We’ll get them daisies,” he promises, watching the spark ignite in Momo’s eyes where he had thought Sousuke might turn him down. “And what other kinds of flowers?”

“Roses!” Momo hoots, finally leaping into the air as though Sousuke’s smile had set him free. “And peonies! And tulips!”

“Keep it to three,” Sousuke chides, turning to follow after him with a small smile. “We’re both poor, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Momo throws his voice over his shoulder without looking back, skipping over to the rose stand to start picking out color options. He doesn’t waste any time at all, choosing some on his own and asking for Sousuke’s input on others. When they’ve wrangled a fairly monstrous bouquet of roses, daisies, and a couple tulips and are standing at the register while the employee decorates the bouquet, Momo turns to Sousuke and reaches out to rest his hand on Sousuke’s arm. Surprised into silence, Sousuke only stands there tense and still as Momo grins up at him, his eyes still excitement-bright but dimmer now with reflection and affection.

His tone when he speaks is more hushed than Sousuke is used to from him, thrown low and utterly anticipatory. He asks, “Wanna go swim after this?”

And Sousuke thinks he should’ve expected that, considering. He feels the heat of Momo’s hand on his arm straight through his skin to his bloodstream where the mark of it is brought back to his heart and left there, a distant memory.

He has smiled and felt calmer and more at ease in the last few hours than he can remember being in years; and what a wonder it is, that a firecracker like Momo is the cause.

“Yeah,” he says, eyes flickering up to the daisy still tucked behind Momo’s ear, to the dusted pattern of freckles on his cheeks. He finds the freckle in Momo’s eye and for once, he doesn’t care how obviously tender his tone is when he finally speaks.

“Let’s go swim.”  
  
  


✧   
  
  


“You know,” Sousuke says the next time they’re both in his kitchenette and the moonlight is peering in through his window. “You don’t have to cook for me anymore.”

“I know,” Momo replies, turning over his shoulder to smile at Sousuke. “But I kinda like to.”

Sousuke doesn’t say anything in response to that, he merely continues leaning back against the counter, watching the jerky ways in which Momo maneuvers around his kitchenette. He’s in a bright yellow hoodie, bright enough to make Sousuke squint, and his hair is still tussled from the evening swim they’d taken just over an hour ago. Sousuke’s is a little wild, too, though Momo’s seems to have a mind of its own; it stands up in strange places and in several different directions, and lies plastered against the nape of his neck, still damp.

Staring at those hairs, at the delicate skin of Momo’s nape, is almost too much for Sousuke. It makes him blush, makes him turn away to hide it. Momo doesn’t seem to notice, even as he periodically turns over his shoulder to make sure that Sousuke is still there behind him, a solid and silent reinforcement of some kind.

Sousuke crosses his arms over his chest and thinks of sunset, knowing that it’s too late for them to see it. He feels warm and calm and relaxed, can practically taste the warmth of the multitude of colors he can imagine having spilled down the throat of the horizon. He blinks when he sees Momo cast another glance over his shoulder, a little skittish, almost as though he’s nervous.

He raises a brow, a simple gesture, but it makes Momo’s entire frame straighten, his cheeks and that delicate nape flush pink. This brings both of Sousuke’s brows up, his eyes openly curious and appraising. Momo jerks back to the pot in front of him and moves to grab the handle. He hisses when his fingertips touch the hot metal rim of the pot, his arm jerking backwards as quickly as he can manage.

Sousuke is there in an instant, his long stride taking him across the small kitchenette without hesitation. Momo’s got his fingertips in his mouth and is making mewling noises like an injured animal when Sousuke turns him around and frowns at his scrunched expression.

“Let me see,” He says, tone low and insistent. Momo bounces a little in place, a silent pout, but he removes his fingers from his mouth and puts them into Sousuke’s waiting hand without complaint. Sousuke turns them over and studies the slightly reddened skin, nothing too serious, just a minor burn. His shoulders deflate a little, tension flowing from his form almost palpably. He runs his thumb over Momo’s fingertips and studies the lines of his palm—so small, so delicate, especially compared to his own.

“Be more careful, Momo,” he insists, voice still pitched low enough to sound gravely. His voice comes out gruff, more so than he’d intended, mostly because of the worry, but he doesn’t apologize for it. Instead he runs his thumb back over Momo’s fingertips, pressing against them with a gentleness he only ever feels in Momo’s presence. He lets his heart slow back down to something like a normal pace and pushes back on the memories being rekindled by the simple fact of having Momo’s hand in his.

Memories that come in splashes of color, vibrant and blended; fresh like summer, like spring, like flowers and freshly cut grass and first light. His heart feels heavier in his chest, but in a good way, in a comfortable way, as though finally, finally—after all this time—his heart is finally full. It hadn’t been incomplete, or missing pieces before he met Momo, that wasn’t it.

It was just that now,  _now_  Sousuke’s heart feels complete in terms of potential. All this time he’s had so much to give, so much to offer—he hadn’t even known it himself, to be true—and now that he can, now that he  _has_ , oh, the feeling of fullness is a first light all its own, shining down warm and comforting on his soul.

The understanding of this feeling, so long spent elusively out of his grasp, is so comforting that when Sousuke glances back up to meet Momo’s eyes, there isn’t a single trace of hesitancy, of anticipation, of curiosity in him; he looks at Momo and the love that fills him peers through and heats his skin to a cherry-glazed glow.

There’s a flicker of a moment, a blink of time, where Sousuke notices the expression on Momo’s face—bewildered, excited,  _eager_ —that makes him think about hesitating, makes him think about questioning his intentions; but then he’s already leaning forward, leaning in, until his free hand is curling around that sweetly delicate nape, fingertips gentle, and his forehead comes to rest against Momo’s with a soft nudge.

“Momo,” he breathes, and it’s incredibly embarrassing how ragged his voice is, stripped bare and laid raw and open before Momo like a gift he didn’t even have the courtesy to wrap. “I’m gonna kiss you.”

The words, as they are, are a clear translation of Sousuke’s intent, but it’s his lack of movement, equally transparent, that’s important. A statement in words, pitched in just the right way to make it an inquiry, a request, a line he himself has drawn and now stands toeing along a precipice he’s been wanting to let himself fall over for  _so long_.

But he can’t take advantage—doesn’t want to take advantage of Momo, so he draws the line and gives voice to the rules while handing the threaded cord of his heart over into Momo’s hands, and waits.

Momo’s irises, golden honey, shining amber, toss and turn like unlocked treasures and then he’s lifting up onto the tips of his toes and pressing his petal-soft lips to Sousuke’s, the bridge of his nose a trail of wildfire. Sousuke closes his eyes and smiles into the kiss, feeling the pinprick preface of tears he won’t let fall.

Momo breathes into the kiss and lets his hands come to rest on Sousuke’s chest, gentle and uncertain but fluttering with an echo of that earlier shade of excitement that Sousuke had seen in his eyes. He’s sloppy and inexperienced and eager, unbearably eager, and before Sousuke knows it Momo’s pushing him back until the curl of the counter bites into the dip of his back, bowing him out towards Momo’s body.

Sousuke loses himself for just a moment in the reverie of kissing Mikoshiba Momotarou; in the sweet taste of him, the delicate smoothness of his nape beneath Sousuke’s roughened fingertips, of the way he makes tiny almost incomprehensible sounds every time Sousuke shifts his lips, as though he isn’t certain how to breathe around the kiss.

Sousuke can relate—he still isn’t quite certain if he’s even breathing at all.

He pulls back a breath, still close enough for the straight line of his nose to touch the pert tip of Momo’s, close enough for him to see the dusting of freckles dancing across Momo’s nose and cheeks. His eyes are still squeezed shut, his lips trembling and gleaming and open, asking so much of Sousuke’s restraint.

Sousuke brings his hand up and rubs his thumb over Momo’s bottom lip, a gentle swipe, a ghost of a touch, and watches Momo’s eyes open in response. He’s surprised to see that there’s a gleam to them that Sousuke recognizes, the sort of glazed expression he’s been noticing of late whenever he’s caught Momo staring at him. He hadn’t thought much of it then, having been too far in denial that Momo would ever reciprocate his feelings or even find him worthwhile enough to stare at as anything more than his friend and trainer.

But now, now it’s so clear—like water, like the depths of the ocean, like moonlight shining through the sparkling surface of a stream—Momo is happy.

Momo is happy  _with him_.

“Oh,” Sousuke says, without even realizing it.

“Oh,” Momo breathes, a laugh in his tone. “Same.”

Momo looks up at him and Sousuke feels transparent, like every secret feeling for Momo that he’s been hiding for so long is now laid bare before him, open for inspection. Even though it makes him nervous, Sousuke does not look away; he is as direct as always, his stare unflinching.

Momo meets his gaze head-on, though, blinking once, then twice, before studying Sousuke’s expression with more clarity. Sousuke watches him watching him and wishes for just a moment that he could read his mind, see him unfold just as Sousuke feels he has. He waits and waits and doesn’t say a word, his chest tight and heavy as his fingertips continue to trace lightly over the back of Momo’s neck, almost absentmindedly.

It’s almost sudden, the way that Momo’s expression opens so completely that he, too, is laid bare before Sousuke’s eyes. He encourages Sousuke to look with those wide eyes of his and a slow curling grin that unfurls over his lips with an accompanying flush over his cheeks. He lets Sousuke in; he takes what Sousuke has been giving, and gives what Sousuke has been craving, and it is the singular most beautiful moment that Sousuke can remember experiencing in his life.

Reciprocation is a garden blooming in his chest, cherished and tended with love and care and the heat of Momo’s genuine stares, the softness of his jubilant grin. Sousuke feels simultaneously undone and complete in the face of Momo’s joy, his heart the marching backbone to a symphony he and Momo have been disjointedly composing for years. What a beautiful moment, a magnificent feeling, to have such a cherished composition come to life beneath his skin.

If he’s being completely honest, Sousuke still can’t quite believe it. He studies Momo clinically, objectively, notes the heat and flush of his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, the way his eyes are opened wide, staring into Sousuke’s without fear or even confusion. Just, surprise. He waits for Momo to pull away, to get nervous and make up an excuse to leave, to step away and put up walls and ask questions where he has a right to, but he doesn’t. He stays, and he smiles, and it’s beautiful.

He’s beautiful.

Neither of them says anything, for better or for worse, their silence is a comforting weight over the both of them and they’re content to share its warmth.

After a long moment, Sousuke leans back in until their foreheads are resting together once more, his eyes sliding closed. He rests against Momo, a small but solid strength, and can’t help but smile when Momo’s hands clench into the fabric of his shirt, getting a better grip. He can practically feel the buzzing of Momo’s skin, the jittery movements of his heart. Sousuke wagers that his heart is racing a mile a minute and knows that even if Momo doesn’t quite understand how they got here, to this point, that it’s going to be okay.

What’s important is that they  _are_  here, together.

They are opposites in every sense of the word, a pair that’s starkly different from one another—

(Dark and light; quiet and noisy; cynical and hopeful)

—A steadily flowing stream and a storm’s thrashing ocean.

Maybe as a pair, they’re a little unusual.

But even the most beautiful symphonies are a harmonious combination of storms, of wind, percussion, and string; at their most deconstructed level, even the most beautiful symphonies are unusual, too.

Sousuke and Momo work together in that same strange, propitious way that symphonies are constructed: with genuine love, excitement, and determination. 

Their hearts have only just learned to sing in key, their symphony just beginning.

But everything else is just background noise.

**Author's Note:**

> Sousuke pining after a temporarily oblivious Momo is, probably, my favorite thing.


End file.
